Are You Moving On
by Drarry Contributor
Summary: Harry is a recluse and has been neglecting his friends. Hermione and Ron have already begun to give up on him, but then Draco Malfoy shows up, Draco and Harry's friendship ended abruptly in a way that made Harry lose his ability to write and want to deal with others. And yet, there's someone else who can somehow see through the bullshit and into the reality of their situation.


_"Don't part with your illusions. When they are gone you may still exist, but you have ceased to live." __  
>― <em>_Mark Twain_

Harry sat on the balcony of his apartment and breathed out the smoke from the cigarette in his mouth. His legs were curled up in the metal of the railing and his eyes were trained on the setting sun. And yet again, like every night, he wasn't able to think of a single story idea. He had come up with a few in the past and even published a couple novels, but he hasn't been able to think of anything to write in years. For some reason he's still holding out, hoping one day his ability will come back to him like a long lost friend.

Someone knocked on his door making him roll his eyes and toss the unfinished cigarette over the railing and down below. Hopping off, he headed over to the door just as Hermione used her key and hurried inside. He gave her a key a while ago because she wouldn't stop complaining about how scary it is for her to wait outside in such a dangerous neighborhood. At least with the key she can get in by herself.

"Oh Harry…" She sighed frustratingly and immediately began to try to fix his matted hair, but it's no use. After a moment she gave up and settled for cleaning his ash covered glasses. He didn't particularly care if he could see or not so he didn't bother to thank her afterwards. Once she finished with that, she looked at his stained white shirt and wrinkly sweats but merely sighed. "I came here again because Molly wanted to invite you to Ron's birthday party. It'll be this Saturday at eight sharp." Hermione explained. After the first few times coming here, she had given up on finding a place to sit. Other than the oak desk in the corner and rolling chair which has seen far better days, there isn't any other furniture in the apartment. The floor is littered in papers and is in obvious need of vacuuming but it's livable. All Harry needs is _livable_.

"Why didn't any of the Weasley's come by?" Harry asked and turned around to go to the fridge to find something for Hermione to drink so she wouldn't complain too much about his hospitality later. He found some earthy organic drink and handed it over. It was almost worth it to see the look of relief on her face with the knowledge that he hasn't gone completely barbaric.

"Whenever any of them try to visit, you refuse to answer the door." Hermione pointed out with a glare. The look made her navy blue business attire suit her better than before. That with the heels and sharp button down shirt buttoned up to the collar, she looks like an incredibly accomplished lawyer which she is. Harry looks up the news about her cases occasionally; she's becoming more and more renowned. He never mentions this to her though, so as far as Hermione knows, he doesn't care in the slightest. But that is preferred. They should all forget about him and leave Harry to his writing in seclusion.

"I did have another reason for visiting." She said in a strangled tone. He looked up then and met her brown eyes, waiting to hear whatever it is she doesn't want to tell him. Usually this is the gossip like Ginny's new boyfriend or Ron's latest attempts at job finding. "Draco is in town, and apparently he's looking for you."

This isn't what he was expecting.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his pack of cigarettes, only one more left, and started to kick papers around looking or a lighter. "It'll be hard for him to find you, of course; after all, it took us a year after you disappeared so suddenly. Don't worry about it. He'll probably give up soon and if he doesn't I can always lead him on a false trail." Even though her words are optimistic, Hermione sounded so tired that he couldn't bring himself to trust them. Eventually she'll leave, they all will, and he'll finally be alone.

"Draco won't give up that easily." Harry stated just as he found his cheap orange lighter on the ground under an attempted manuscript. It only reached three pages before he ditched the idea. It was supposed to be about a robot but he had to stop there since he knows nothing about sci-fi and isn't in the mood to learn. When he looked up she was giving him that disapproving glare she usually reserved for during college when he didn't do his homework or made less than a B on a test.

"I really wish you would stop that." She sighed but there was no strength behind her words at this point. "Draco Malfoy has money and connections so be careful. In the meantime I'll tell the Weasley's that you had an important engagement that you couldn't get out of. If you need my help…" She didn't continue and merely left as quickly as she had arrived.

Even though he wants to be alone, there is still a sense of calmness that comes over him after someone he used to know comes and visits. It's something to keep away the darkness that threatens to fill his mind when he's alone for too long, but darkness isn't too bad. The numbness which comes from doing nothing seems to keep him from falling into a void and helps the days pass without much pain or consideration of the things he's refusing to do. But one day he'll write again and when that happens-

Something will change.

He sat down on his broken chair and stared at his computer screen, willing words to come to mind and flow from his hands like they used to. When he was younger he would write about marvelous adventures and friends that would help him keep the monsters at bay. This was back when he was still living with relatives and had no one to play with. When he got older and met others his own age he didn't write as much. But when he endured his first bit of hardship his stories were about struggle and overcoming obstacles, until one day all of his stories were about people living their lives and going through their struggles. It was a strange transgression as he got older but the stories seemed to grow with him. This talent he treasured had been a constant companion until this last bit of heartbreak. That moment in time seemed to kill his most treasured possession. So now he stays home every day waiting for his old friend to return.

In a moment of masochism, he reached beside his desk to pull out a dusty binder which held all of his works from when he was in Elementary school. Flipping to the beginning, he began to read the first thing he was ever inspired to write.

_Unattainable Solutions_

There are bars on my window and paint on the floor  
>With no reason for being, it prolongs its stay.<br>These feelings are kept behind a well placed screen  
>Unable to come out due to the glow of coming winter.<br>But this face I wear is elegant and utterly perverse  
>Who am I, to live my life the way that I do?<p>

And yet...

_I would spread my wings and fly today,  
>but it's cold outside and I've grown tired.<em>

It was written when he was in fifth grade. His home at the time was a prison of sorts, and this is when he found out that this isn't normal. Some of the words in it he used because they sounded fancy but it came out well. His teacher was incredibly proud of him, but soon after the one who gave him a chance died of a stroke.

_"Remember: the time you feel lonely is the time you most need to be by yourself. Life's cruelest irony." __  
>― <em>_Douglas Coupland__, __Shampoo Planet_

When Harry was in first grade, he met someone named Nicholas Mimsy-Porpington. This teacher wasn't his own, instead he had to deal with a teacher who didn't seem to care if he lived or died, but he taught kindergarten and often spoke to the other students at the school. But he seemed to pay particular attention to Harry with his large clothes covered in stains. The first words he ever spoke to Harry were, "You look like someone who was born in the wrong place and given the wrong life. But don't worry young man; I happen to be the same." Nicholas laughed heartily.

The other students said he belonged in the medieval times rather than in the now but Harry hadn't known what that meant at the time. Regardless, Harry began to spend every day after school in Nicholas's room. He mostly spent the entire time speaking about his youth and the grand times he used to have. Harry would always listen as diligently as possible but being a first grader, he would often become bored. But Nicholas noticed him and so Harry always did his best to give the man his full attention. Besides, the longer he spent on his rambles, the less time Harry would have to run away from Dudley.

After a few months of this, Nicholas finally said something about Harry. "Harry, I believe you have talent. One day you will become something great, and I know exactly what you'll be. You'll one day become a brilliant writer. I have a sense for things like this. I can look at a person and tell you the greatness within them." The words filled Harry with a sense of warmth, although he didn't understand where Nicholas got the insane idea that Harry could become a writer.

After this, he began to read as much as he could, Harry would stay in the school library for as long as they would allow before going back to the cupboard under the stairs. He knew the books would be in danger if he took them to the Dursley's so he made sure to stash them in Nicholas's room. Of course the teacher was honored to be the caretaker of these precious worlds. That's what he called them anyway, but he seemed to think the job was much more important that it actually was.

One day Nicholas brought a tray of fruits and vegetables claiming that, "Today we will eat as the healthy man does!" While the next he ordered pizza and stated, "Today we will eat in the easiest way I know how." Harry never cared what they ate, because no matter what it was, it would be delicious because it was something picked knowing that Harry would be eating it as well. This was his treat as well as Nicholas's. And so they would spend every day after school eating happily while Nicholas recounted yet another story that may or may not have happened.

But for some reason the teacher never seemed to let go of the idea of Harry becoming a brilliant author. He began to suggest countless authors, most of which were too complicated for Harry at the moment, but it didn't matter. Someone believed in him, and for a kid that no one paid attention to, this was a dream come true.

Harry did his best in all his English classes and tried to figure out how to write, but whenever he forced himself to, nothing would come out. It took him until fifth grade, once he read all the interesting books in the library, to finally write that one little poem. But it seemed to be enough. When Nicholas read it, he cried. Tears filled those big eyes of his, and he asked Harry a question which had never been directed at him before.

"Harry my boy, are you alright?" The words seemed to pierce straight into his chest and the pain refused to leave. A sharp coldness grew and all the happiness he had at the accomplishment of that one poem vanished. Instead it was replaced with the horror of what had transgressed. His relationship with Nicholas will never be the same again. He will no longer be that boy that spends his afternoons in that teacher's room listening to all those exaggerated stories. He won't be able to be the student who tried to understand Nicholas's mad theories, and will never again be the child which made sure to give Nicholas a gift every time his birthday or a holiday came around. Instead he became something different. He was now something to be pitied.

Harry left before Nicholas could express his thoughts about the poem. A week later, Nicholas died of a sudden stroke. He would have been fine if it was just the stroke but he wound up nearly losing his head thanks to a pane of glass he was helping a friend carry.

Harry didn't go to the funeral, but he did put the poem away and chose to never let anyone else read it. This one poem doesn't belong to Harry or anyone else. It was something written solely for Nicholas in the attempts to show him that Harry really will become a brilliant writer.

_"Things change. And friends leave. Life doesn't stop for anybody." __  
>― <em>_Stephen Chbosky__, __The Perks of Being a Wallflower_

Harry set the binder down and glanced out the window once more, the sky is dark now, but there are too many clouds to see the stars. It's just as well; he never paid any mind to them anyway. Harry isn't stupid; he knows that what he's doing is unhealthy and that he's probably depressed. The only problem is that in order to fix all of this he'd need to go outside, but leaving the safety of the apartment means constantly remembering everything he's tried so hard to forget.

No, instead of leaving he'll remain here and continue to look for his writing muse until the day comes where it finally finds its way back to him. He took in a deep breath and leaned back in his chair knowing that if he leans back any further the back will fall out again. He needs to replace it, he needs to replace several things in his apartment but he won't. It would involve him leaving the house.

Sitting there in his seat he stared at the blank document in front of him but couldn't think of a single word to write. Instead of spending the entire night staring at the document like every night, he decided to check out the fridge to see if there's anything new in there. He had checked it out earlier when giving Hermione her poison, all organic drinks are poison, and he couldn't remember seeing any food. Then again, he was looking for a drink. When he opened the fridge all he could see was rotting cheese that he didn't even buy, and a couple beers. He sighed and shut it again knowing he'll have to leave the house to get food soon.

Before, Hermione would do his shopping for him, but that was when she used to come every day with Ron and whoever else wanted to come visit. Now she only shows up once a month and usually just to deliver a message.

He has a list by the fridge of all the things he needs to get. It isn't like Harry is lacking for money; he had a hefty inheritance that was dumped on him at the age of eighteen, and his published novels have brought him in some money, enough to pay bills. On the small scrap of paper it lists a television, dvd player, edible food, beer, the movie Breakfast at Tiffany's, the book This Side of Paradise, and cigarettes. It took Harry a moment to remember why he had written that book down. It was something he had read in his college years. The main character reminded him of Draco, quite a bit actually, but this was when they were still on good terms. Unlike now where Harry is hiding away in his apartment while Draco continues to look for him.

There's no point though, Harry let it go, he's done, and there is nothing in this world that'll make him go back to _that_. He walked into his room and grabbed some semi-clean pants, a t-shirt with some logo on the front, and his boots are by the front door like always.

The one good thing about needing to go out, is that his apartment is right beside a strip mall. He doesn't have a car, so the less distance the better. There's a grocery store, video place, electronic store, and even a few restaurants. He walked down the stairs and felt his pocket to make sure he remembered his cigarettes and lighter. It's a reaction now to constantly reach for it. Those packs have become his one and only security. The stairs seemed sturdy enough and concrete but the metal railings are half off of the stairway itself. Eventually this thing will collapse but Harry doesn't really care. It's not that scary to die after all.

He looked at the cars which passed beside him as he started on his walk to the strip mall which is less than a block away. He couldn't help his growing suspicion that Draco is in one of them and that he'll see Harry and come sweeping back into his life once more. But nothing remarkable happened. He passed a prostitute that looked to be about thirteen, she didn't try too hard to woo Harry, and with all the bruises on her arms and collar, he could understand why. His apartment complex is incredibly rundown with cheap rent and paper thin walls. He's lucky no one lives next door otherwise he'd probably hear people having sex constantly or something much more gruesome. These are all stereotypes but Hermione did the research. His neighborhood might be worse than these suspicions. It's not like it matters though.

The first place to his right happened to be a hole in the wall Japanese food vendor. Harry walked up but before he could say anything the man behind the bar started making his usual. This is about as far as he usually goes, and even then Harry wears a hood and keeps out of sight. Today he must go a little further though. When his order was finished, Harry paid and gave a tip before heading on to the grocery store. All he needs are beers and cigarettes, unless he wants to stock up on bread so he doesn't have to leave much, but that involves effort. Grabbing a cart, he set his white container down where people normally put purses or small obnoxious children and headed straight for the beer section.

He usually gets Dead Man, and today is no different, there's something ironic about it. After getting a couple boxes, he looked around at the other people in the store, half expecting to see a glimpse of white-blond hair or cold gray eyes. Instead he saw a fat lady with her equally plump husband along with a couple college boys getting chips and sodas nearby. Harry didn't get the bread even though he knew he should have, but a part of him liked the constant fear of whether or not Draco would be wherever he went next. It's something different than his usual, but the fear is still a white heat which is coursing through his veins, driving him to the brink. It's still a fun.

He asked the electronic store to deliver the tv to his apartment the next day knowing he can't carry it out with everything else. It was twenty extra which Harry thought was a bit much, but maybe not.

He got every bit of Camel the grocery store clerk had behind his counter and paid quickly, wanting to leave as soon as possible, but he knew he would have to go to the tables outside the video store in order to eat his food. He can't carry everything back at once if he has to worry about it, trying to balance his container of food while holding several bags of things is too much. When he sat down, Harry began eating his tempura bento, taking special care with the miso soup and sushi. The ice cream parlor never gets mad at him for using one of their outside tables, instead they ignore his existence entirely which is something that Harry prefers for the most part.

He ate one thing at a time and refused to admit that he's doing this slowly in the off chance that Draco Malfoy will show up. But he finished his errands and nothing interesting happened which left him with a strange sense of bitterness, as if even now Draco still can't meet his expectations.

Harry went to sleep that night and dreamed of nothing, nothing at all.

"The truth is, unless you let go, unless you forgive yourself, unless you forgive the situation, unless you realize that the situation is over, you cannot move forward."  
>― Steve Maraboli, <em>Unapologetically You: Reflections on Life and the Human Experience<em>

Harry woke up to the sound of someone knocking on the door. It's either the electronics store delivering the tv he bought or Ron demanding to know why Harry isn't coming to the party. Harry looked down at his white shirt and plaid boxers and sighed, not really caring who sees him like this. He's kept up with his shaving out of habit but other than that, he's his usual unkept self.

He opened the door and stared. Draco Malfoy is there in a suit with a trench coat on and a scarf. It's barely considered chilly outside but he looks fashionable and that's all that has ever really mattered to Malfoy. Malfoy's eyes were wide as well letting Harry know that although he was meticulous about researching and finding Harry, he didn't think about what he would do once Harry was actually found.

"Harry," Draco Malfoy started and held out his hand as if he is going to touch Harry to see if he's really real. In a matter of seconds the door slammed and locked. He couldn't even remember doing it but his chest rose and fell heavily as he moved backwards. A slight misstep led to him falling on his ass thanks to the scattered papers on the ground. He barely felt the bruise form on his butt or even the way a nail sticking up from the wooden floorboard pierced his palm. Instead he stared at the door and was grateful he managed to lock the door before falling.

"Harry James Potter, come out this instant!" Draco growled through the door, but as expected, there was no answer. "You can't hide in there forever you know! I'll be waiting when you get hungry or need to wipe that dense ass of yours!" Draco shouted childishly after he kicked the door a few times. Harry looked away to keep from smiling and instead moved over to his desk once more. It looks like today will be yet another day of staring at the blank document, but this time he'll be ignoring the reality outside his front door.

"Begin at the beginning," the King said, very gravely, "and go on till you come to the end: then stop."  
>— Lewis Carroll (Alice in Wonderland)<p>

When Harry left the Dursley's, he did so knowing that he would have two free meals a day, a dorm he could rest in without fear of losing his bed, and that he would never, ever, have to see them again. All of these things are what made him work hard in school so that he could make it to college on a full scholarship.

College life suited him well. He managed to make the highest scores in all of his English classes, in all of his main, a girl named Hermione Granger beat him every time, but Harry focused more on his writing anyway. That day in the fall of his first semester, his English professor asked to speak to him after all the other students left the class.

"Mr. Potter, you have trouble with tenses, contractions, and have trouble allowing the reader to understand who is who. Although your ideas are grand, you can't seem to follow through and give them the work and effort they deserve." Professor Moody stated in his gruff voice, his glass eye seemed to be glaring at Harry as he did his best to focus on his professor's words. The other students call him mad because he spends most of his classes talking about constant vigilance and how stupid everyone is. Their grammar was atrocious, their story ideas cliché, and no one seemed to be able to remember basic grammar rules. His nickname is Mad-Eye Moody thanks to his eccentricities. The worst was when he threw his teacher workbook at a student in the top row. Luckily no one was hit thanks to him and the students in the row under ducking just in time, but things like that make his classes legendary.

"I'll work hard on correcting that, professor." Harry nodded, with a frown and began to take a step backwards.

"You didn't allow me to finish." He growled and smacked Harry with a notebook he happened to have on his podium beside them. Harry couldn't help smiling and nodding. He always liked Moody, but his time with this teacher will end in a week. "I presume that in the near future you will become a much better writer than me. I can't do all that romance babble or adventure shtick but I have the advantage of grammar. When you master grammar, which I'm sure you will, Mr. Potter, you will be far better than me." He stated then quickly turned away, motioning for Harry to leave. Harry stood there in shock then beamed widely.

"Thank you so much professor! I promise to work hard!" Harry promised and walked out of the class, only to run into a boy with astonishing gray eyes. Of course with wispy blond hair and an arrogant smile on his pale face, Harry was quickly brought back to his situation.

"So I hear there's a new literary genius running around the English building. I'm assuming that'd be you," He smirked, obviously proud of himself. Harry frowned and held his shoulder bag close to him. This kid might be a bully like Dudley, or maybe he's just a creep, but either way Harry wanted nothing to do with him and began to walk back to the dorms. "Don't walk away from me! Do you even know who I am?!" The young man demanded, his tall skinny form demanded as he stalked after Harry like a pissed off cat with a passive mouse.

Harry whirled around then and glowered at the stranger before. "As a matter of fact, I _don't_ know who you are. You never bothered to tell me. Instead you started yapping on arrogantly about how you're looking for a literary genius. All you've been is a nuisance." Harry scowled and crossed his arms over his chest while the man in front of him gaped.

"I-I've never heard such impudence! I am _Draco Malfoy_, the most talented boy in this school with the potential to receive whatever it is I want just by using my intelligence, charm, and good looks." He smiled widely as if this were something to be excited about. Instead, Harry turned around and walked away in sheer shock at the audacity of this ridiculous _child_.

"Wait! I have to have you!" Draco cried out, almost squeaking in his attempt to get Harry's attention. He stopped but only because those are words that have never been directed at him before. Sadly, this momentary pause allowed the arrogant brat to catch up with him. "I require the friendship of all the most talented students in this school." He breathed through his pants. Harry had barely managed to walk across the parking lot and yet Draco is exhausted from running that distance.

"Why? Why must you collect people in this school and why must I play a part in your insane delusions. Just because you find talent doesn't mean that it will work for you. You can't control people; all you can do is hope that they won't disappoint you as you put your faith in them. But people are human and humans make mistakes. Your world is going to collapse when you realize this later on, Draco." Harry said blankly but watched the calculating look in his companion's eyes. He's not going to listen.

"I'm going to buy you a drink and we'll discuss this further in the library." Draco informed him with what looked like a real smile. This one change in expression changed Harry's entire perspective of the boy in front of him. A gust of wind blew over them reminding Harry that it was winter and they really should be heading inside anyway. He glanced around but luckily there were no other students in the area so no one would see him interact with this strange branch of madness before him.

Draco grabbed onto Harry's arm and dragged him along towards the senior library. Harry couldn't help becoming a bit interested in the new development. This was something that has never happened to him before, and for some reason, he wanted to see it through to the end. Draco's wearing some kind of trench coat with a suit underneath and dress shoes that look brand new, and yet he's trudging through the mud with Harry as though the shoes aren't obviously worth more than everything Harry has on his person. For some reason this didn't seem to matter to Harry, not in a way which would make him irritated or astonished. Instead, Harry grew more and more interested in this strange character named Draco Malfoy.

The library has four floors, none of which are you supposed to speak in, at least not loudly. When they walked in, Draco smiled flirtatiously at the girl behind the counter. She looked to be in her fifties and yet she smiled at him and rolled her eyes as Draco led Harry to the nearest elevator. When he got there, he pressed the button for the basement floor which is full of books from the 1900's and under. It's only fiction but since the school has such a wide array, this section has its own floor.

There were a series of tables with leather chairs, and a few couches as well. Draco immediately walked over to the nearest bookshelf and pulled out a novel. "Have you discovered anything more glorious than the works of the ancients?" Draco asked as he spun around in flourish. The smugness on his face had a slight to glow to it, as if he were on a high just from entering this room. Harry looked around at the dust covered shelves and the dimness of the room itself. There were no windows, only the lights that will obviously go out in a week or two, but in this place Draco seemed so at home that it made Harry interested in it as well.

"Draco, these people aren't ancient." Harry commented dryly, but then looked at the title of the novel he was holding. "I haven't read many of the classics though," He admitted and moved forward to learn more about The Catcher in the Rye.

Draco gaped at the man before him then smacked Harry's face with the book he was holding. "How dare you! How could you live a life without the wonderful works of these writers," He hissed, but then glanced at the book in his hands. "Well this is essentially the work of a pompous twit who has no idea how to shut up, but this is as good as any place to start." He murmured then shoved the book into Harry's chest.

"Tell me what you think of that one once you finish, and then I'll get you another book to read. I can't believe a writer would forgo the classics! I should end our friendship this instant." Draco growled to himself, but then those gray eyes met green. There was a moment between them that neither could understand, but just as soon as it started, the moment was gone. "I'll make an exception this once." Draco nodded to himself then began looking through the shelves again.

Harry ignored him for the most part and sat down to begin reading this book. Sure, there were other things he was intending to do with his time, but Draco's right in a way. Harry shouldn't ignore the classics. Just because he's going to be a writer in the modern world doesn't mean he shouldn't include aspects of the past in his works.

Draco would ramble in the background about the greats and the idiots but Harry only paid him half a mind. For some reason though, he hoped they could do this again. The story wasn't all that absorbing but he did his best to mug through the first bits until it finally got to something interesting.

"So what do you think of dear Holden?" Draco asked, suddenly appearing right beside Harry. He jumped but managed to keep his composure. Harry was only through the third chapter, but he did have one thing he could say.

"He has the mind of a child, but at the same time, he's himself. Regardless of whom he's with, Holden is exactly who he is. He's immature, he's loud, he's obnoxious, but he sees the world differently." Harry murmured and stared at the page, feeling his face grow red at the sudden interest in his opinion.

"That's some beautiful bullshit, Mr. Potter. But I'll admit, it's that kind of _insight_ which will make the teachers at this school love you." He continued with a smirk. "I knew I made the right choice."

Harry ducked his head and forced himself to continue reading the book, trying to ignore how happy that made him. It didn't occur to him that Draco Malfoy could be using him, or maybe Harry will just be a passing phase. But that doesn't matter because Harry was smiling.

"The one you love and the one who loves you are never, ever the same person."  
>― Chuck Palahniuk, <em>Invisible Monsters<em>

Harry peeked through his blinds and saw Draco sitting next to Harry's front door in a leather recliner with massage functions. While he was being massaged, there was a man beside him holding out a plate of fruit while Draco had something to drink in a champagne glass. Harry rolled his eyes but he couldn't help the way his stomach growled.

The words at the tip of his tongue didn't find their way out; if he speaks through the door then Draco will try to talk to him through it. Granted, he still is regardless. Over the last three hours Draco has spent that entire time bashing Ayn Rand, The Mockingbird, and countless tv shows. But mostly he vented his frustrations about the show Lost and how many years he wasted on that addiction.

Harry did his best to block him out but it's difficult because Draco knew how to make him laugh and he still does. He managed to write while dealing with the horror of the stalker outside. Mostly, the work he managed to do happened to be about a conniving blond and his sarcastic friend who happened to pull him off his high horse whenever possible. He had to stop writing after a while thanks to the knowledge that the story will have an unsatisfactory ending. But this one moment of bliss, where words began to flit about the screen as he typed out every thought in his head, that one instant was enough to make him feel happier than he has in years.

One hand slid over the papers all over the desk, and he couldn't help wanting to make more pages to have to pick up later. He wanted to write more than all of the work in his apartment combined, but that's impossible for right now.

Harry glanced over at the movie corner. Breakfast at Tiffany's is right next to Fight Club, but in a way there are similarities between the two. Both of them are about broken people whose lives are turned around by another. Of course, with Fight Club, the 'other' isn't the same kind as Tiffany's but still. He shook his head, not knowing why his brain suddenly went into literary analysis but it happens occasionally. That's what being a writer means apparently.

"And you see, most of her books have the same exact plot but it's just a different institution like architecture or railroads. I mean, it's ridiculous! One man fight against society's standards and succeeds in causing a revolution, that's it! She's just a preacher who thrusts her ideas into poorly constructed novels." Draco ranted through the door, occasionally taking breaks to eat or drink probably.

Harry ignored him the best he could and instead grabbed a beer. He needs to write something to get rid of his pissed off mood. Harry thought about it for a moment and then started to write about a guy that was sick and tired of this girl assuming things about him and so he finally came up to her to demand- but at that point Harry stopped writing.

"Here's a delivery for Mr. Potter," A man called through the door as he knocked. The tv guy is finally here. Harry went to the door but as soon as he opened it Draco walked through swiftly. He didn't have time to deal with the intruder so instead he signed for the tv which came up to his waist, an older model which was as wide as it is long. The man at the door, an Asian guy with a mustache coming in and a curved chin came in to set it up. There wasn't much in the way of wires, just one to plug it in, but he made sure to put it where Harry pointed and made sure it worked. "I hope you enjoy your purchase." He commented and walked away swiftly, leaving Harry to stare at the back of his blue sweater.

"The door's still open, Malfoy, get out." Harry said idly and moved to set up the dvd player. Maybe he'll get inspired by watching one of his favorite movies. There were only four things to plug in with this, one for the wall and three for the television, everything's easy.

"I'm not leaving, _Potter_." Draco said from the computer. He was reading over what was written but there's not the barest hint of emotion on his face. "Harry, what the fuck is _this_?!" He demanded, and immediately deleted the document. His face was red and hands balled into fists, but Harry mostly paid attention to the look of betrayal in his eyes. "When did you start writing such atrocities? I thought you were better than this. You _have_ been better. So what's going on? You won't answer the door for me, you're trying to kick me out, your board is filthy, and your writing is nothing compared to…" He paused then and stared at Harry in concern.

"Is this because of what I said?"

"Get out." Harry said once more, turning back to the dvd player to turn on Tiffany's.

"You were always so obsessed with that movie. But Harry, you and I both know that broken people don't get happy endings." Draco said softly and walked out.

Harry didn't say a word, instead he started the movie and laid on the ground, ready to watch it and hopefully become inspired again. The water stinging his eyes had nothing to do with anything. It's just condensation.


End file.
